


I'm Pretty Good On the Back Nine

by brynnmck



Category: Canadian 6 Degrees, Canadian Actor RPF, Canadian Actor RPF (C6D), Canadian Musician RPF (C6D), Headstones (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-02
Updated: 2007-05-02
Packaged: 2017-12-14 18:15:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brynnmck/pseuds/brynnmck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Nrgh," is what Callum says when he picks up the phone. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Pretty Good On the Back Nine

"Nrgh," is what Callum says when he picks up the phone. At least Hugh's pretty sure it's Callum. Could be he's accidentally called some other poor bastard at two o'clock in the morning—he's not really sure he's figured out the speed dial on his new phone yet—but no time like the present.

"Rennie, you fucking pussy."

A pause, then, "Hugh?" Callum's voice is thick and sleep-scratchy; he sounds half-asleep and confused as hell, but not unhappy, exactly, and something eases a little in Hugh's chest.

"Who the fuck else would it be, cuntface?"

Another short pause, and Callum groans, muffled and defeated-sounding. "It's too early for this."

"Bitch, bitch, bitch."

"Yes, actually, you are."

Hugh laughs, settles back in his seat—good, Callum's waking up a little. "OK, Rennie, this is a bit of a surprise, so I'm gonna give you that one."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"The fuck do you want?" Callum yawns.

 _I want to fuck you through the mattress_ , Hugh thinks, _I want to hear you moan my name, I want to hold you down and suck you off and watch your face when I make you come…_ What he says is, "You got company?" He hates asking, never wants to hear the wrong answer, but he figures they avoid a hell of a lot of awkward situations this way.

"No."

"Good." And Hugh hangs up.

The sound of his truck door opening echoes along the street; quiet night, which is always tempting. An eternal elevator ride later, he's knocking on Callum's door, and it's a few minutes longer than that before Callum answers, leaning sleep-creased and puffy-eyed against the edge of the door. His hair is sticking in nineteen different directions and he's got a pair of sweats hanging low on his hips and Hugh's fingers are itching.

"I think that counts as an obscene phone call," Callum observes tiredly.

Hugh just grins. "You wish. When you get an obscene phone call from me, you'll know it." He saunters through the open door, swings it shut behind him with one hand and keeps walking, till he's got Callum backed up against the wall.

"You're not like other people," Callum tells him, and now he's grinning, too.

"Aww," Hugh answers, "that's the sweetest fuckin' thing anyone's said to me all day," and then his mouth is on Callum's, hard and hungry, and Callum is opening up, straining against him, tasting like… mint? Hugh laughs a little into his mouth and presses in harder, chasing the flavor.

Eventually he has to breathe, and he's still feeling vaguely fucked up about this whole thing, which is the main reason he's here in the middle of the goddamn night, so he pulls back, looks at Callum's wet smile and his hot pale eyes.

"Mouthwash?" he asks. "Presumptuous motherfucker. Thought you were gonna get lucky, didja?"

"Well, when I heard some crazy fuckhead knocking on my door, I figured it had to be you, so, yeah," Callum retorts easily. "I didn't figure you were hanging around outside my building—which, by the way, people get arrested for—because you wanted to discuss Stanislavsky."

Hugh rolls his eyes. "I _never_ wanted to discuss Stanislavsky. Not that that ever fuckin' stopped you before."

"I _study_."

"You _obsess_."

Callum raises an eyebrow. "Saved your ass."

Well, he's got Hugh there, and he's still grateful for it, so, "Can't argue with that."

"Good." Callum arches his back a little, pressing his bare skin against Hugh's sweater, which Hugh's dick is pretty excited about. "Now if we're done with the formalities, this wall is fucking freezing."

Hugh tells his dick to shut up for the moment, steps back enough that Callum can lever himself off of the wall. "Be my guest."

"'Be my guest,'" Callum mocks in a sneering high voice, "it's _my_ apartment, asshole," and Hugh laughs while Callum collapses on the couch and tugs a blanket around his shoulders. "I thought you weren't getting in till tomorrow."

Hugh shrugs, takes a seat in the chair across from him. It's a nice chair, soft and green and new, and fuck. This is exactly the shit he's talking about. "Gig in Victoria got cancelled," he says. "Last-minute thing."

Callum makes a sympathetic face. "Sorry."

"Yeah. Fuckers." They'd been counting on the money, too, but that's shit under the bridge now, he guesses, and they'll just have to hope they sell a lot of t-shirts in good old Van.

Silence for a few seconds, then, "So." Callum props his feet up on the coffee table. "It's a little fuzzy, due to the fact that I was, you know, _completely fucking asleep_ , but I seem to remember you calling me a pussy earlier. Was there some specific reason for that, or is this a general conclusion that you've arrived at and needed to share with me?"

Hugh's stomach drops; now that he's here, he just kind of wants to forget the whole thing, but Callum's got a new lamp, too, some weird abstract ceramic piece of shit that looks like a third-grader made it, and between that and the chair, well. "Both," he grunts, trying to keep his tone light, no big deal. "You've always been a pussy, but… _golf_ , Rennie? Seriously?"

Callum blinks, then his mouth curves a bit, and it's hard to tell in the faint light of the lamp (and now Hugh can't stop thinking about it, seriously, _what the fuck_ is going on with that lamp?), but Hugh thinks Callum's face might be a little flushed. Callum jerks his shoulders and his head, halfway between a shrug and a tic, like he's being interviewed. "It's the sport of my ancestors."

Hugh snorts. "Yeah, but your ancestors also carried big fucking swords around, so they could afford to play pussy sports. You carried a sword on fucking _Highlander_ for ten seconds, hardly puts you in the same class." He's being an asshole and he knows it—Callum works his fucking ass off, never says no, pays his bills and does quirky shit on the side for fun and Hugh respects that—but he can't keep his mouth shut.

And Callum's known him a long time. "What the fuck is your problem, Dillon?" he asks, eyes narrowed.

Hugh meets his stare head-on, because this he can do, _fuck you_ he can do, he has a fucking _doctorate_ in _fuck you_. "I don’t have a fucking problem. I'm not the one who's suddenly taken up the sport of his ancestors." He puts all the sneer he has into the words, which is a lot; while he's focused his studies on _fuck you_ , he's minored in sneering.

"It's calm, I like the fresh air, nobody bothers me, why the fuck do you care?" Callum's hands are out to either side of him now, palm-up, and he's starting to sound vaguely hurt, which just pisses Hugh off more.

"Yeah," he says, the words that have been dammed up for days pouring out of him, beyond his control, "first it's Paul and that whole fucking Stratford crowd, then it's golf, then it's fucking designer furniture and incomprehensible goddamn lamps, then it's a penthouse in some asshole hotel, and oh, hey, I'm hitting the links with Alice fucking Cooper, and suddenly you're too good to be slumming it with your old friends, right?"

Callum opens his mouth, inhales sharply—and then stops. Closes his mouth. Looks at Hugh. The silence hangs and stretches. "Alice Cooper?" Callum says finally.

This really isn't going how Hugh intended it to. He quirks one side of his mouth up, restraining Dolphin Boy with an effort because, when it comes down to it, Dolphin Boy has never won an argument with Callum. Instead, he goes for, "Or, I don't know, fucking Scorsese or whoever."

Callum looks at him for another few seconds, then slides off the couch, letting the blanket fall from around his shoulders.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Hugh asks, tensing; they've taken swings at each other a few times before, but never when Hugh's been sober.

"You're a moron, you know that?" Callum says conversationally. And then he braces his hands on Hugh's thighs and drops to his knees between Hugh's spread legs.

Oh.

... Wait. What?

"What are you _doing_?" Hugh repeats, because this can't be what he thinks it is.

Callum rolls his eyes. "I'm doing a fucking interpretive dance about harp seals. What do you think I'm doing, dink?" He squeezes a little with his hands, long, strong fingers, and Hugh's dick is really happy with this turn of events, but his brain is still functioning enough for,

"I don't—"

"You're a moron," Callum says again, "and you're also an asshole, but you're mostly a moron, so instead of beating the shit out of you, I'm gonna make you a deal."

"Like you could take me," Hugh can't help pointing out, and Callum just squeezes harder.

"You are just pathologically incapable of shutting up, aren't you? Here's the deal: I bet I can make you come in five minutes or less. And if I can, you go golfing with me. Tomorrow."

And fuck happy, Hugh's dick is fucking _psyched_ now, his dick is _all over_ this, and he has to force his mouth to shape, "And if you can't?"

Callum shrugs. "No more golf," he says simply. "I'll give it up."

Well, fuck. Now he _really_ feels like an asshole. "Look, Callum, if it—"

"In or out, Dillon?" Callum's hands are busy again, this time at the button's of Hugh's jeans, and oh, Jesus _fuck_ , he never gets used to this.

"Callum—" he tries.

"Clock doesn't start till you say yes, I'm getting a head start here—so to speak—" Callum continues, yanking at Hugh's jeans and briefs. Hugh lifts his hips automatically, braces himself on the arms of the chair and lets Callum tug the fabric down around Hugh's knees. Callum leans forward, his breath hot on Hugh's cock, making him shiver. "You in?" Callum asks, low and dirty, licking his lips, his mouth so close, and Hugh gives up.

"Yes, yes, fine, fuck you, yes," he groans, and Callum grins,

"Good," and swallows Hugh's cock in one easy motion.

The chair might be soft but it Hugh still feels it when he slams his head back, his hips thrusting forward, driving himself into Callum's mouth without meaning to. Five minutes, shit, he's not gonna last five fucking _seconds_ at this rate, and OK, so if golf makes Callum happy, Hugh doesn't want him to give it up, but he's got to at least make a little fucking _effort_ here, he can't just roll over… oh, _Jesus_. Callum's got one hand wrapped around the base of his cock and his tongue is fucking _inhuman_ , and Hugh opens his eyes to see Callum watching him, steady blue gaze with his mouth stretched around Hugh's dick, sliding up and down, and that is not fucking fair, has Hugh thinking of icebergs and walking in on his best friend's grandmother naked when he was ten. Which works for a few seconds, till Callum starts making noises, obscene slurping punctuated with moans that vibrate though Hugh's body, humming out from his dick all the way through his nerve endings until he can hardly breathe. But he's got some pride, dammit, he can _do_ this, hold it over Callum's head for the next twenty fucking years (hopes they _have_ twenty fucking years), right, just a couple more minutes, he can do this, and then he feels Callum shift, looks down and sees Callum jacking himself once, twice, three times, and then gasping and coming, mouth slack around Hugh's cock, and that's it, game over, Hugh's vision goes white and he spurts helplessly into Callum's mouth.

After that, all he can do is heave desperate breaths for a minute or ten, Callum's head a warm weight against his leg. But as soon as he can, he croaks out, "Time," and Callum holds up one arm, light catching off the face of his watch.

"Four minutes thirty-five," he mumbles into the skin of Hugh's thigh; Hugh doesn't know how the fuck Callum knows that, and in fact strongly suspects bullshit, but hell, Callum just came pretty much just from sucking him off, Hugh's going to put that one in the win column.

He takes a deep breath, looks down at Callum again, sprawled all fucked-out against him with those long girly eyelashes fanned against his cheeks, and he opens his mouth to say something—apologize, tease, protest, he honestly doesn't know. And that's when he notices that there's come on the chair, spattered white and messy on the nice green fabric. And he closes his mouth, lets his head fall back so he can grin up at the ceiling.

Ha. Yeah. Fucking _fantastic_.

 

*****

 

Of course, at seven o'clock the next morning, standing at the first tee squinting into the offensively bright sunlight, he's finding life in general, and life with Callum in particular, considerably less fantastic.

"I can't fucking believe I'm doing this," he mutters, trying to get comfortable in his rented spikes, or cleats, or whateverthefuck they are.

"Hey." Callum, all cool and collected in his goddamn polo shirt, points at him, index and middle finger. "You came, I won, you golf. That was the deal."

Hugh scowls. "Fuck you, I'm here, aren't I?"

"Yeah," Callum says solemnly, "but you're not _here_. You gotta be _present_ , man. Be _in the moment_."

"Can I be in the moment where I shove this club up your ass?"

"Hey. That's not buddies." And fuck Callum, because he knows that makes Hugh smile every damn time.

"Fuck you, you fucking golf-loving motherfucker."

Callum throws back his head and laughs, and Hugh watches him, relaxed and easy with his ugly-ass plaid shirt like a flag against the green of the grass. And yeah, it's way too fucking early in the morning and Hugh's about to spend half his day lugging a ninety-pound bag around and whaling on a little white ball with a stick, probably with Callum mocking him the entire time, but it's calm and there's fresh air and nobody to bother them, and hey, there've been lots of days in his life that have started out a hell of a lot worse.

"All right," he tells Callum, with the sort of defiant glee of the doomed man. "Let's do this. On one condition," he adds, before Callum can go anywhere with the evil gleam in his eye.

Callum waits patiently. "And that is?"

"Accents," Hugh says, demonstrating on the word. "The whole damn day."

Callum hesitates. Then, "Yer a contrary sonofagun, you know that?" he mimics, grinning, and Hugh laughs.

"All right. Now where do I put this durned club?" he asks, balancing on the unfamiliar shoes and the too-short grass. And when Callum's arms come around from behind him to help him line up his shot, Callum's breath in his ear and Callum's body warm against his, Hugh thinks that maybe golf isn't gonna be so bad after all.


End file.
